Stand Back Everyone
by Luinramwen
Summary: Dr. Soviet has the world's most annoying nemesis. When a chance rescue causes growing interest between the Doctor's laundry buddy/crush and Captain Freedom, however, he learns that things can always get worse. And usually will. Crossover AU, crack.
1. In which much blogging is done

**Stand Back Everyone**  
Part: 1/6 (unless things get wildly out of control)  
Genre: crossover AU, crack  
Rating: PG-13.  
In Order of Appearance this Chapter: Russia, England, Prussia, Belarus, Canada, Lithuania, Ukraine, France; a few names twisted but possibly recognizable from the Dr. Horrible universe.  
Pairings: Russia/Lithuania, America/Lithuania, mainly. Nothing too hard-core.  
Warnings: Language. Historical references all mashed up into one incoherent glob; if you are expecting accuracy you will be disappointed. Heavy and probably inaccurate accent. Human names used where hero/villain names are not.  
Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia nor Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.  
Notes: See 'Take the Pieces' for the original piece. A recent piece of art by LJ's iraya_sama reminded me abruptly that I'd meant to get the full-length fic up and started before the end of October. And, while at the grocery store last night, I noticed that the next cashier over was dressed as Dr. Horrible. It took great self-control not to adopt a manly voice and go up behind him, clap him on the shoulder, and say, "It's curtains for you, Dr. Horrible. Lacy, gently wafting curtains," just to see how high he might jump.  
The point of these stories is to point out that clearly, the stars were aligning. So I wrote the entire first chapter hyped up on Halloween candy between two and five in the morning.  
Oh god I did a non-Canada-centric fic with actual _chapters_ and _plot_. I don't even really ship either of the two main pairings, _what the hell am I doing and how am I going to do it justice?_ *franticfrantic*

-

[Audio Transcript. 5/20/08. Posted at 17:42 GMT. Source: htttp: // www. becomeone. slsaffiliates. net /#36]

_KOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOL. KOLKOLkol kol -_

(coughing)

_... Always, it needs more work. I have recruited - what would you say - vocal coach, for the improving of the laugh, but never is it enough. I am hearing from some that I am foolish, to waste so much time on laugh. Insolence! True measure of one worthy of entering the SLS comes from timbre of the voice in laugh. I will succeed! This is year I will make it into the SLS. My application is strong, and well-recommended. _

_  
Work on Collective Imperative Ray is going well, for once. Only few parts left to finish. Testing will be beginning soon. I feel it in my bones. This is the one. Collective Imperative Ray. For common good. It will do what no other ray is doing. Tell your friends._

_  
My viewers have been leaving many comments! This pleases me. It is fun, yes, to have many friends? I am hoping you are all looking forward to becoming one with me when I am making my final move. Several I am wishing to respond to._

_  
Viewer Angelus is saying this to me: "Oy, Soviet, I heard you were supposed to carry off a major heist this Wednesday, but the cops were never called out. I suppose certain heroing activities made you think twice about your actions? Cheer up, carry on, it happens to the best of us."_

(silence)

_Angelus, you are mistaken. Doctor Soviet is not backing down before heroes. __Any__ heroes. It is... insult, to even think it. As for this... cheer up, carry on... shit, what are you thinking the Doctor possibly needs 'cheer up' for? I was... ill. Very ill. Twenty-four hour flu, if you must know. Nasty little squirmy bug. Very ill. I have recovered since. Next comment._

(clearing throat)

_Viewer Kestrel is saying: "Soviet! You psychotic bastard -" Nice, Kestrel. I am glad to know your opinion of the parents of mine. "You psychotic bastard, how long are you going to ignore your great and amazing nemesis? I waited in ambush in the park for three hours on Thursday and you never even had the decency to walk by. Pretty hard to be your nemesis when you're so damn uncooperative -" Ah, Kestrel, my delusional friend, have ever I given you reason to believe you are nemesis of any type? _

_  
You will not be being my nemesis ever. I have nemesis. Nemesis is being... Captain Freedom. Captain Freedom, Capitalist Tool, otherwise known as - ah, I am liking this, viewer Angelus has been calling him this in my comments, may I also have privilege to use this name? - Captain Gitface, Capitalist Fool. He has dislocated my shoulder again, last week, by landing me on parked car. _

_  
Soviet does not appreciate being tossed around like cat toy. I __will__ destroy him. Next comment._

_  
Viewer Bloodwhet is saying: "Dr. Soviet, I am your biggest fan. I think what you do is marvelous and gives people everywhere new hope for the future." Oh... that is very kind of you to say, Bloodwhet, I... hold on. "I offer you full support and complete devotion to your cause. If you should ever need a minion, please remember me." Why, I shall, most certainly. Are you being villain as well, then? What are your powers... oh. Oh, wait - "Please address your answer to the third bush on the right outside 1904 Bla..." Wait a minute, that's - outside... outside this... Um, just a._

(footsteps, fading, then returning, rapidly)

_Viewer Bloodwhet, I am assuming you are the woman standing on lawn with the MARRY ME sign. It is regret to inform you that I am not - __not__ - accepting proposals at this time. Please, be returning home, if you will. Next comment!_

(a deep breath is heard)

_Viewer Matt Snow is saying: "Hi, it's me. I know you're probably going to ignore this question, too -" Oh, now why would I be doing that? "- but I just think that it might be a good idea to maybe explain what you mean by your constant cryptic comments about 'only he will become completely one' and 'I will teach him to love the power of a Soviet.' Yeah, a lot of people have kind of been wondering... about that, so... so..."_

(silence)

-

Every Friday, Ivan got off work early, and came home to dig under couch cushions and in his change dish for enough quarters to take his clothes to the laundromat. Every Friday, he dumped his clothes into the same washer, sat in the same chair reading a book, and watched the same people come in and out, chatting in a friendly manner and making small talk.

It would have been mind-numbingly boring but for one thing. One person, really.

He was quiet, shy until spoken to, all nervous green eyes and shoulder-length hair that always seemed slightly mussed. He spoke to everyone who greeted him, friendly and polite. He brought in cookies for familiar acquaintances, and everything from Tolstoy to textbooks to read while the washing machine thrummed its way through another load.

He came in every Friday, and every Wednesday - as Ivan had discovered by surreptitiously walking past the laundromat several times each day for a full week. His laundry on Wednesdays was quite different than his Friday laundry. Ivan suspected a busy sister or - awful thought! - girlfriend, from the pleated skirts, blouses, and dainty socks in his Wednesday loads.

His name was Toris Lorinaitis, he was twenty years old, and he was in his third year at the local community college. He always put his clothes into the washer right beside Ivan's, and Ivan had never spoken a word to him.

He had followed him home once, though. Hey, it was an accident. And curiosity. Toris had never even noticed he was being followed. He lived in a nice apartment block a few streets over. Suite 506. Fourth window to the left of the main entrance.

It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to talk to Toris. It was that he could never quite get the perfect suave words out of his mouth in order to convince Toris that Ivan was worth talking to. It was funny, in a painful, ironic sort of way. All he wanted to do every time Toris even glanced in his direction was to blurt "Become one?" like an idiot, and that would simply never do.

Not that he wouldn't ask the question, eventually. But that was the sort of thing that one had to... work up to. It didn't take a genius to figure out that such a blunt approach might scare Toris off completely, and that would never do, either.

He understood one thing about why it was so hard. As he was, he was a failure. As he was, who was he to expect anybody to be even remotely impressed by a track record that mostly included being beaten up by his least favourite attention whore and so-called local hero? Yes, of course, it was _just_ the kind of thing that would cast him in a pleasant light for anyone happening to look in his direction. He did not think.

One success. One success was all that he needed, to prove to Toris - to prove to the city - that he was not a failure, that what he was trying to do actually _meant_ something for the greater good of all humanity, and then, maybe - just maybe - he could approach the other and say, _Look. Look, this is me, I am more of a real hero than Freedom ever was, I am trying to change the world and make it a better place._

And maybe then - just maybe - Toris would be able to respect him, as well as like him. Because of course he would like him. How could anybody not? Except for Freedom. Freedom didn't count. Freedom was, as this unknown Angelus had put it so succinctly, a gitface.

Ivan wondered what a git was, and why it was so insulting to have your face be one, but in the meantime that was less important than having found a satisfyingly rude nickname for his nemesis, for days when frustration overcame common decency.

-

_"... Also, it is your week to cook. Don't get too wrapped up in your lab work again, it's not healthy." Oh, __fine__. I hope you are liking borscht, it is all I am in mood for cooking. _

_  
Power in the hands of the people! Dr. Soviet out._

[end 5/20/08 post]

[Comments: 6]  
_Posted 5/20/08 17:43 GMT by Bloodwhet: I have patience, dearest Doctor.  
Posted 5/20/08 18:21 GMT by Kestrel: Oh pul-LEASE, Soviet, such a lame excuse. I am way more awesome than that dude will ever be. Tell you what, you, me, Main Street, tomorrow at 1300 sharp, and we'll settle this business of who your real nemesis is once and for all!  
Posted 5/20/08 18:28 GMT by Angelus: You are of course free to use the nickname I came up with. In fact, I say that the more who use it the better. By the by, I'm glad to hear it was only the flu stopping you on Wednesday. I do hope to see you on the move again this week. I expect to see you in the breaking news with a new ray soon.  
Posted 5/20/08 18:35 GMT by Demeter: Please be careful, Dr. Soviet. I heard the police are beginning to moderate villain blogs nowadays, so be careful what you say here! I don't want to see you thrown in jail.  
Posted 5/20/08 19:01 GMT by Bastille: Ah, Soviet! The romance you have injected into a tired and boring struggle of economic idealisms is beautiful to behold! I shall follow your travails with great passion!  
Posted 5/20/08 19:28 GMT by Angelus, Reply to Original Comment (User: Bastille): GTFO of the comments, bastard._

-

"Hey Doc. Got your mail while I was out." Matt Snow dropped the pile on the table, then began to struggle out of the heavy coat he wore everywhere, even in the summertime, tossing his gloves onto the couch before turning his attention to the zipper, which had become stuck.

"Ah, thank you, friend." Dr. Soviet began rifling through it. Junk... junk... another bill... junk... nothing, as usual. He sighed. Perhaps the SLS hadn't had time to process his application yet. Late spring, there was usually a rush of hopefuls applying, often young people in between years at the college or the university, most of whom were rejected without a second thought. He looked up as a thought occurred to him. "You did not return home last night. What is it that was happening?"

"Oh, uh... just, stuff, you know... stuff. Out. With... friends. Doing... stuff."

"What friends?"

"Demeter and Quixote, I'll have you know." A little more strength returned to Snow's awkward tone.

"They are not very badass."

"Neither am I," Snow pointed out, an edge to his voice.

"Ah yes, you remind me. Go cool kitchen down before I must be cooking tonight."

"... Seriously?"

He sounded affronted. It was really too bad that Matt Snow insisted on working the super scene along with everyone else, when clearly his powers were most useful in other circumstances. Like in a dairy. Or on a ski hill. Or in a morgue. Perhaps his family had made him feel inferior about misusing his given talents until he had agreed to at least try finding a position as a henchman somewhere. He'd never asked.

"I am having ice cream from friend Andres in freezer. He says, is half for you."

Snow's eyes lit up. Soviet smiled complacently, leaning again the edge of the table.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Snow said hurriedly, doubling back on his steps just as he was about to walk into the kitchen. He extracted a plain envelope from his pocket - no plastic window, handwritten addresses. Soviet's heart leapt into his throat. "I wanted to keep this separate so I wouldn't forget about it." His smile was almost sheepish as he handed it to him, then disappeared back into the kitchen. "It looked important. I think it's from your League. Isn't that their seal, the hammer and -?"

Ever so carefully, Soviet slit open the envelope, and pulled out the letter within, blood ringing in his ears.

"So what's it say? Good news?"

It took him a long moment to answer, as he had to reread it twice more before he could bring himself to speak. Dr. Soviet wasn't sure he could believe his eyes, but there was the writing on the page, as plain as day, the signature and the seal and everything, and if that wasn't enough proof that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, nothing was. "I... I have received letter from... from Bad Marx himself."

"Oh wow." Snow reappeared in the doorway, eyes wide. "Really? From the leader him -? Wow. Isn't Real Lenin usually the one who sends out the letters? You've always got one from him before -"

Dr. Soviet nodded, excitement beginning to spark through his blood as he read through the letter one more time, just to truly convince himself that it was real. The words remained the same, full of promise. "He says... evaluation. Evaluation is needed, and Soviet League will be watching to see how I am performing over next week or two."

Snow hesitated, seeming to be unsure what reaction was called for here. "Well... that's not too bad, is it? It's not a no..."

"You are kidding, yes? This is fantastic! I am picking up last part, the stalinium, for the Collective Imperative Ray tomorrow, from transport. And by 'picking up,' I mean I am taking it forcefully, from capitalist scum." He folded up the precious letter carefully. "Soon the Ray will be complete, and I will have the entire city under its power! That should be impressive to the League, yes?"

"Ah, yeah. Yeah, probably." Another hesitation. "Armoured car?"

"Courier van." Soviet rubbed his hands, gleefully. "Like candy, taken from small child. Never will opportunity be more... opportune."

"You think you'll need any help? Any... making things cold, or, I don't know... covering your tracks with snow?"

Matt Snow looked almost hopeful. Soviet felt almost bad about shaking his head and crushing his dreams to be useful to anybody once more. "The League is watching now. I must do this all on my own. Also... it is the middle of May, my friend."

"Right," Snow muttered, hunching his shoulders. "Well, back to the kitchen for me, I suppose." And he slouched off.

Dr. Soviet stood irresolute and thoughtful in the middle of the living room for awhile longer, before striding purposefully over to the east wall, and opening the secret panel that led off into his lab. There was a lot of work to be done.

-


	2. In which wiles are thwarted

**Stand Back Everyone**  
**Part:** 2/6. In which Toris is oblivious, and Dr. Soviet is srs, intense, and stalkerish. In which Captain Freedom sees a wile, and thwarts.  
**Genre:** crossover AU, crack  
**Rating:** PG-13.  
**In Order of Appearance this Chapter:** Lithuania, Ukraine, Holland, France, Greece, Austria, Turkey, Poland, Russia, Latviaaaa, Captain America, England, Hungary.  
**Pairings:** Russia/Lithuania, America/Lithuania, mainly.  
**Warnings:** Language. Incoherent globs of vague history. Heavy on direct quotes from the Blog this chapter. Heavy and probably inaccurate accent. Human names used where hero/villain names are not.  
**Disclaimer:** I own neither Hetalia nor Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own. Also, spot the references of things that do not belong to me.  
**Notes:** How can something be both ridiculously easy and aggravatingly difficult to write at the exact same time? I'm still not sure I'm satisfied. This chapter was, however, a chance to play around with the mundane side of all the characters, which is always fun.  
Feliks, you are fabulous and snazzy, and I heart you and all. But writing your speech drives me bonkers.  
Haha, and somehow I thought this chapter might be _too short._

-

"... So if you take the street going in this direction, I'll take it going in this direction. Then we both cut over a few streets to our respective rights to see how many shopowners in the newer downtown areas are willing to sign our petition." Toris looked up through his bangs at his companion, who was studying the passerby anxiously. "Katyusha," he said gently, to catch her attention, and she turned.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Yes, I heard you, Toris. I'm just a little nervous. No one looks all that interested in saving local business in the historical downtown, and I've never petitioned anyone before, so..."

"It's really not that hard or scary," Toris said. "You can do it. How many signatures have we got already?"

She turned the clipboard clutched tightly in her hands right-side up, and studied it carefully. "Um, five. We've got the signatures of the owners of the patisserie, the little Mediterranean cafe, the music shop, the flower cart, and the falafel stand. That's... that's not that many, is it?"

"It's a start," said Toris, because she was right, it wasn't that many, but it was better than nothing, and it was hard enough to keep up Katyusha's spirits sometimes, even without the truth getting in the way.

The man at the flower cart, at least, who seemed to know Katyusha quite well, had given her a yellow tulip and a grin before he signed, and demanded a copy of the petition to show customers. He'd already been showing it to a pedestrian that had happened to look a little too long in his direction as they continued on down the sidewalk.

The flamboyant and elegant man at the patisserie had also accepted a copy to circulate, though he'd honestly seemed more interested in seducing the increasingly flustered girl than in signing her paper, and Toris had had to step in to keep Katyusha from passing out from too much blood to the face. It hadn't really helped; the man had simply turned the full effect of his suave smile and silk-smooth voice on Toris, who'd been dismayed to find it actually having a flustering effect on him too. He had the rather distant impression of roses exploding and the air glittering, but that was ridiculous, right, because that didn't even happen in cartoons, let alone real life. Probably he'd pulled one too many all-nighters recently on projects and essays. Still, at least he'd signed, and taken a copy, and neither of them had succumbed to the charmer, and that was what mattered.

A languid young man who'd served them thick dark coffee at the cafe had scrawled his signature lazily underneath the first two, and told them to leave a copy at the counter. Toris couldn't help but wonder if it would actually do much good; halfway back to his post, the man had gotten distracted by a sleek tabby who had claimed a sunny windowsill beside one of the tables on the south side of the room, and had sat down and petted the purring creature as Toris and Katyusha had gulped the last of their bitter drinks down, sorted out their next spot on the list, and counted out enough change to pay for the drinks. He was actually asleep in his chair when they left, one hand still draped over the back of the purring cat.

Toris had tackled the falafel seller while Katyusha went into the music store to talk with the gentleman owner, who treated pianos as though they were his own children. If this pattern kept up, Toris decided, as the man pressed kebab and pitas urgently on him, he might honestly need help making it into the next street. Why did so many of these old establishments have to sell food? But again, they'd gotten the signatures.

And so here they were, passing petitions and soliciting passerby when all of their classmates were taking the day off from homework and going to the movies, or getting an early start on drinking for the weekend, or heading to the mall. His roommate was probably already at the latter, having justified himself with words like, _Look, Toris, I totally get your deal with this save-the-small-businesses thing, but local businesses? Don't sell like any cute outfits at all, it's totally bogus. Don't pout at me, even you can't, like, deny that it's true. Make sure you get like enough signatures to save that place that makes those adorable little cakes, OK?_

Five out of five hundred signatures was not a very large amount. It would have gone faster with Feliks, who could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, in part just by breezing the information by his victim so fast that they hardly had time to comprehend it before they were being handed a pen and told to sign. But there was simply no shifting the boy from the promise of a shopping spree, and that was that.

"We'll meet in... an hour and a half, back near the cafe," he suggested, and she nodded.

"OK. See you then!" Shoulders squaring, she marched off. Toris turned as well, and headed off in the opposite direction.

-

He tugged uncomfortably at the neck of his long-sleeved t-shirt, and glanced around, alert to the presence of every other pedestrian before ducking around a corner. Ivan was pretty sure no one would be coming down this alleyway any time soon, and it was the perfect position from which to watch the loading zone for the courier van. He set down his bag, and knelt to rummage free the most important components of this following, delicate procedure free. There, the remote. Now it was only a matter of getting it onto the van without anyone noticing.

Ivan hefted the object in his hand, bouncing it experimentally once or twice, before tossing it gently in the air. This was supposed to initiate the hover mechanism and send it gravitating towards the nearest vehicle. In fact of the matter, he barely managed to leap forward and catch it before it could hit the ground and shatter. Cursing, he got back on his feet, and wondered how the hell he was supposed to get it over there without being seen.

He caught sight of a boy dawdling along down the street, and an idea struck him. He hurried forward, reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. The boy yelped and seemed to go boneless under his grip, falling to the ground trembling. "P-Please don't hurt me, I don't have any money, I was j-just passing by -"

"I am wanting you," Ivan said, hauling the shaking little creature back up to his feet, "to do me a favour." He reminded him a bit of a scared puppy. It took him some willpower not to pat him on the head and say, _Good dog_. But there was no time at all for messing with the little creature's head, not when no other pedestrian might pass by in time.

"F-Favour, what kind of favour?"

"Take this," Ivan said, and handed him the shiny silver control box, "and you will put it somewhere it will not be being taken off or seen on _that_ van." He bent down to point across the street at eye level.

"Wh-what? No! You're going to blow it up, aren't you?!"

Ivan blinked, then took offense. "I am not _crass_. Blowing up of vehicles is... distasteful, and is not -"

"You're going to steal it!"

"Preferred word is 'borrow' or 'liberate,'" Ivan said, and gave him a wide pleasant smile that seemed to make the boy shrink in on himself even further. "Now be the good citizen and be helping fellow man, yes?"  
He patted the boy on the back, nudging him out onto the sidewalk, and withdrew back into the shadows, pressing himself flat against the building.

Still shaking, the boy crept timidly across the street, looking rapidly from side to side, and then stood on tiptoes to push it as far onto the roof of the van as he could reach. Perfect. Any place would have done, but the closer it was to the driving mechanisms, the better.

The front door of the building opened.

"Oy, you! Kid!" barked a guard, stepping out of the building, having spied him from within as he dropped back down to the flats of his feet. "Get away from that vehicle immediately!"

The kid jolted as though someone had shot him full of electricity, then took off down the street running hell for leather, not looking back even once. Ivan tensed, ready to act, but the man returned indoors after seeing the boy disappear well out of sight. He relaxed again. Now, to set up the device to take remote control over -

"Excuse me -?"

"Ahh!"

In spite of himself, Ivan jumped, and whipped around, fully expecting to see that grouchy police officer who patrolled this area standing behind him, armed and completely unimpressed, readied himself to run or fight except that voice had been too hesitant to be a policeman making an arrest and there was a clipboard not a gun, and friendly, vaguely worried green eyes, startled now, and... oh.

Oh.

It probably would have been better to be apprehended by Kirkland after all.

_"What?"_

He sounded so defensive and hostile that he winced, and Toris stepped back, flinching a little before steadying himself with an unsure smile. Ivan was torn between admiring his shy face and mentally urging him the hell out of there so he could go on with his job.

"Um, well, I - I was just wondering, you see, whether... whether... u-umm..." His voice trailed off, and it occurred to Ivan that he was staring, and that either he'd been caught out or that Toris was staring at him too, and that just sent off a whole new miserable cascade of embarrassing feelings that were going to make this whole thing even more awkward very shortly. And then the young man's eyes lit up.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I almost didn't recognize you. I... I do know you, don't I?"

... Wait, he knew him?

"Yes, knowing from laundromat," Ivan found himself saying before he could stop himself. "Wednesdays and Fridays, we are doing laundry at same time. Last week, you skipped Wednesd - I mean, yes, we have been seeing each other before. Never speaking."

Toris smiled, clearly missing the implications of someone who could name off his schedule on cue and list the days he didn't stick to it. Ivan was frankly relieved. "I guess we're speaking now. Hi, I'm Toris." He held out a hand. Ivan stared at it blankly for a moment before it occurred to him that regular people shook hands, and took it, awkwardly. Warm, slender, slightly calloused palm, grip neither weak nor firm, more intent with not causing anyone any discomfort, it seemed, than - No, stop it. Enough. He had a heist to think of.

But it wouldn't hurt just to find out what he wanted... would it?

"Ivan," he said, a little gruffly. "What are you doing in alleyway? Is no place for walking and the hanging out."

Toris seemed a little confused, as though he would like to ask why, then, was Ivan standing there beside a trash can with what appeared to be a cellphone in his hand and a worn grey duffel bag at his feet, then thought better of it. "I'm helping out the Local Business-Owner's Association. There's a petition we're trying to circulate... um, but if you're not interested...?"

Ivan realized he was looking out and across the street, to where the van still sat, waiting for its cargo. He swallowed. It would be cutting things very fine, but this was an actual conversation, with someone who wasn't Snow, or his landlord, or the older sister who was the only member of his family still alive who even spoke to him any more. And it was _Toris_. Talking to _him_. "OK, sorry, I am listening," he said, and held up the remote, trying surreptitiously to at least get the program started before the guard came out, thumbs flying over the keypad. "Tell me, what it is that you are doing petition for."

Toris nodded, took a quick, almost nervous breath, and began to talk. "The mayor's considering signing a deal with the megacorporation Tony Ltd., which would drive every small locally-owned business in the city into the poorhouse, and completely destroy the commercial centre and community in the historic core of the city. We've proposed that if we can find enough people who agree that this would be a bad thing, he won't sign our town over to become another gear in the machine of... corporate business. It's important to... preserve a sense of community in... our city, or... we... we will all become vulnerable to attacks from the space monkeys... and the cyborgs... and florists.... you're not actually listening to me, are you?"

"Huh?" Shit, he was doing it again. He did think he'd heard something about florists though, which seemed appropriate, somehow. He turned quickly back around, focused firmly and intentionally on Toris. "No! No, I mean, I am listening, it is important, I agree, community, is important, working on equal terms with others, is important. Working under rich dirty bastards, not so important. Not wanted, yes? But more use is there in prevention rather than cure. Like redirecting flood at source, or sandbagging as water fills your place of living. Too late. Still losing as much as saving. You see? There is no need for sandbagging with petitions in a world where system is not flawed and biased against little people. A disease, raging through us and keeping us all down, consuming slowly our livelihoods. The fish, is rotting from head, as is said, so my thinking is we must be cutting off the head entirely."

"Huh?"

"The head of... you see, because system _is_ what controls - it is rotting us - human... fish... ah."

Great, now he either sounded like a crazy person or a total idiot. This was precisely why he had put off and put off speaking to Toris, and now he'd screwed it up.

"I know," Toris said, simply.

"...What?"

"I know," Toris repeated, looking down, cheeks a little pink. "But that sort of thinking takes a head and a power much greater than mine. And violence... isn't really my thing. I'm just a college student, I don't have connections or an army of like-minded people behind me... so this is what I'm doing. Would... would you still sign?"

Ivan hesitated, torn again. On the one hand, small business was still the practice of capitalist scum. On the other, it was better than being lorded over by a small group of super-rich bastards. On the other, other hand, he was _Dr. Soviet_. He shouldn't be supporting anything even remotely capitalist! The League was watching him. Bad Marx would question his motives. Real Lenin would send a task force to monitor him and make sure he wasn't doing anything bourgeois.

"Of course I am signing it," he said, and quickly took the profferred clipboard, writing his real name in tidy little letters on the line. One little slip of principles wouldn't kill him.

Toris was smiling at him.

"What?" Ivan could have kicked himself. He needed to stop sounding so suspicious of everything.

"I like your accent," Toris said, then added, quickly, "Um. I didn't mean to be rude, drawing attention to it, or anything. I just - are you Russian? Um, that's kind of a rude assumption to make too, isn't it, I'm sorry, I - I'll shut up now."

"Is nothing. No problem." Ivan hesitated. "Yes. My family, they are Russian. Mostly Russian. I have been... many long years away from motherland, and I..."

"Do you miss -?"

But Ivan had thought he'd heard a door swinging open behind him, and had twisted around again, and missed the rest of his question.

"...Um. I guess I'll be going now. You seem busy, so... I guess I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Huh? Yes, Wednesday, but -"

Toris flashed him one last quick nervous smile, then scurried away.

Ivan looked to make sure he was gone, then knelt and pulled the coat and the long flowing scarf out of his duffel bag, hands automatically smoothing over the buttons in the front to assure military crispness, and the weight and warmth of the outfit was comforting. The waterpipe fit comfortably over his arm like a cane. He was not Ivan, in this outfit. He was Dr. Soviet, confident, competent, and this would succeed.

A man in a guard's uniform was walking briskly out of the building, the sleek silvery unmarked case that almost surely held the stalinium, and the Doctor turned his attention more fully to the situation at hand, doing his best to dismiss Toris from his mind. He still had to finish connecting -

There!

Soviet breathed a sigh of relief as the guard put the case in the back just as he finished, then turned to the clerk who had followed him out and took the profferred clipboard, presumably signing over responsibility and the security of the substance in question. He grinned. Very soon, that man would regret what he was doing, because it would be his responsibility when the van was stolen from under his very nose.

He turned it on, shifted it into drive, and pressed 'gas'.

-

He was at a table in a cafe, comfortably enjoying a hamburger by himself (The rumpled waiter had given him a pained and put-upon look when he'd ordered, but had nevertheless returned with his promised hamburger. It was one of his favourite perks of the job. The burger still tasted a bit like the weird white Greek sauce this place liked to put on everything else, but what the hell, a hamburger was a hamburger), when his Red Alert went off shrilly in his pocket.

Momentarily torn (_Finish burger or protect the peace? Finish burger or... ah, it's probably that damned man Soviet! Shit._), he shoved the burger into his mouth, and stood, chewing rapidly as he pulled his bomber jacket back over his shoulders.

"S'ry t' eat 'n' run!" he called to the waiter, who had jolted awake in his chair at the sound of the alarm. Swallowed. "I'll be right back, swear it! Got a call, gotta go!"

Something was tingling. He'd never been able to explain exactly how it happened, but he knew which direction to run the moment he burst out the cafe doors and into the streets. He could see it, when he turned to look, further down the block, a van hurtling crazily down the street, and hadn't he gotten a grudging police report the other day informing him that there would be something called stalinium being transported through the city this week which was of great interest to certain groups of people? Certain groups of people such as the SLS.

Captain Freedom took off running, dodging pedestrians skillfully as he targeted the van, leaping past a patch of snow on the cobbles in front of the flower cart (it barely registered consciously as a potential hazard; he was in the _zone_), hurtling onwards, feet pounding on the pavement, dodging a pair of giggling girls just outside the music store. He was so close - almost there -

Several people turned to stare as he leapt, and latched onto the back of the van, using the roof rails to pull himself up and on top of the vehicle. The wind blew his hair crazily. A silver thing with a light was blinking and beeping on the front corner of the roof. There, that looked like a Soviet device if he'd ever seen one.

People were stopping to stare; Freedom supposed he couldn't blame them, but people were going to get hurt if they stood so close to the road while this van was weaving back and forth in what might have been an effort to shake him off. He didn't wonder what might happen to him if whoever was controlling the van actually managed to throw him off (like anything could take him down, he was the _hero!_)

"Stand back, everyone! Nothing here to see!" he yelled, then lurched forward onto one knee and smashed the remote device with one heavy fist.

-

Toris was feeling pretty accomplished. He'd almost filled the page with signatures, which was a pretty good for less than an hour's work. Every small business he'd gone to had taken a copy for themselves, to keep somewhere on their premises; that almost guaranteed that any regular customers would also sign, and who knew, they might actually make a difference and be able to save this community space.

Not to mention that he'd finally seen that tall man with the almost child-like face somewhere outside of the laundromat, and managed to initiate an actual conversation, no matter how awkward. He'd always thought the man was sort of creepy, maybe a little crazy, but Ivan was not so bad after all, intense but not nearly as frightening as his eyes suggested. It was nice to be able to prove first impressions wrong in a positive manner, and it made Toris feel pretty good about the world around him in general.

He was humming to himself when he first heard the screams behind him, and the squeal of tires.

Toris turned, and the van was _right there_; in spite of every cell in his body screaming at him to get the hell off the street, he couldn't seem to react quite fast enough and the van was almost on him and suddenly arms weightlessness the smell of leather and then brick under his near-numb cheek, cool and rough and real.

He sank down to the ground, knees giving out, and stared at the man in the bomber jacket seeming to reach out with nothing, and then the front of the van ran into that nothing and crumpled as it slammed to a stop.

What... what the hell had just happened?

"Hey, you OK?" said the man, turning to him, at the same time as a giant of a man in a strange outfit with a scarf obscuring the majority of his face ran onto the scene and went straight for Toris's rescuer, furious.

He was yelling something in a language Toris couldn't quite understand, but it was clear that he would like nothing better than to clobber the man in the bomber jacket with the disconnected water pipe and faucet arrangement he was carrying with him. Though his face remained almost completely clear of emotions, they glittered in his eyes like wildfire. Toris could swear the air felt about ten times colder and tenser around him.

"I knew it had to be you," the man in the bomber jacket said, voice suddenly icy. "Well, don't think you're going to get away with this. It's curtains for you, Dr. Soviet. Lacy, gently wafting curtains."

The sheer bewilderment on the Doctor's face gave the man in the bomber jacket enough time to get a hold on his opponent, twisting his arm up behind his back and bearing down until the Doctor was pinned against the crumpled hood of the van.

"Not so great now, Doctor, hm? I suppose you're going to use your Social Responsibility Ray on me now to guilt me into letting you go - if it didn't fail and make me decide that my social responsibility is to take you out! Oh, wait, that's what I decided long before you ever hit me with a ray."

The Doctor spat out something that was clearly incredibly rude, even if neither Toris nor the hero could understand what he'd just said.

There was a look of abject misery mixed with the cold anger in the Doctor's eyes as the man smacked his head against the hood of the van, and Toris didn't know why, but he felt a sudden surge of pity. It hadn't been like anything had actually _happened_, after all, and it was probably hard enough to deal with having a scheme foiled yet again without having to deal with being humiliated by your nemesis as well. He pushed himself to his feet, and brushed himself off, trying to control the shaking of his hands.

"Um... excuse me?" he tried, and the man in the bomber jacket looked up at him, and smiled brightly.

"On your feet already?" he said, and with one smooth motion sent the Doctor staggering back across to the other side of the alley, shadows of bruises already forming on his cheeks, but at least he seemed to be momentarily off the man's radar. It would give him a moment to gather his pride, and if he tried anything, well... Toris was looking right at him. "You're really not hurt, are you?"

"N-no, I'm fine. I'm fine. Um. Th-thank you. For, um, you know... rescuing me." He felt like an idiot. He must be blushing to his ears. "The van would probably have killed me if you hadn't stopped it. I... I don't know how you did it... it was like you hit it with something invisible -"

"Oh, that was my Invisible Hand," the man said cheerily, and held out one of his visible ones to Toris, pulling him forward in a firm grip. "Hey, what's your name?"

"T-Toris," he murmured, not quite sure how he was supposed to react to being given attention like this, from one of the city's most well-known heroes and being in addition... really rather handsome, oh he had _not_ just thought that. "Toris Lorinaitis. Um, and you're... you're...?"

"Captain Freedom, of course!" The devil-take-all grin was doing something very odd to his knees. He'd seen it at work on legions of screaming fangirls, but hadn't given so much as a thought to it until this very moment. Why was it doing this to him? He'd just been concerned about Freedom's behaviour towards Dr. Soviet, for crying out loud.

... He'd kind of been hoping for his human name, but he supposed that answer made sense, if his nemesis was still hanging around.

"You should stay away from Dr. Soviet," Freedom said. "He's dangerous. What were you doing in an alleyway all by yourself, anyways?"

"Um, walking, to my next stop," Toris said, and felt a little embarrassed to admit it. "I'm spreading a petition to save the small businesses in the downtown area, so..."

"You're a hero too!" Freedom's eyes lit up. Um. Wow. They were... very, very blue. Uh. "That is awesome! See, this is why I fight people like Soviet. Everyone deserves a chance to make something of themselves rather than be levelled down, don't they?"

"But if you're fighting _him_... shouldn't that mean you're all for... you know... corporations?" This was confusing.

"What? Oh, no, no, that's Kapitan Kapital you're thinking of. Totally different guy. He has his own nemesis, the Comrade. Yeah, we don't talk much. Tell the truth, he's a bit of an ass. A helpful ass, but an ass. We're on the same side, yeah, but he's not me. Gosh no. Freedom's different from Capitalism, you know." Freedom fixed him with a very earnest look.

"Um... sure?"

Toris was feeling plainly bewildered. Ten minutes ago, he had never met or bothered to understand the super community at all, and now he'd met two and was being told about more than he'd ever really wanted to know, in detail.. It was a little overwhelming.

He had no words for how glad he was when he heard someone yelling _"Toris!"_ and he recognized the voice. Captain Freedom turned around to see what was going on, and was elbowed out of the way by a figure in a pleated plaid schoolgirl skirt, who hurled itself at Toris, already talking a steady stream.

"Oh my god, Toris, are you, like, OK?" Feliks's hands were tight on his shoulders, lazy green eyes wide and anxious for once. "Elizaveta and I saw it from, like, up by the music store, that van was majorly careening down the street without a driver, oh my _god_, and then we saw it heading straight for you, and, and I totally thought you were finished for sure."

"I'm actually just fine," Toris said, vaguely, still feeling a little lost, wondering when his friend had even gotten to this part of town in the first place. "Um, that guy with the jacket - Captain Freedom - he got me out of the way. He saved my life." He looked up and past Feliks, wondering if he would have stuck around or if he would have already have walked away, and felt even more lost.

Dr. Soviet was nowhere to be seen any longer, but there were a bunch of costumed freaks around him, including a guy in a toga with a halo and wings, two people in armour - although the one appeared to be wielding a kitchen implement and be distinctly female - one in a bird outfit (what was he supposed to be, a hawk, or Big Bird, or what?), and someone who looked vaguely like the Frenchman from the patisserie wearing nothing but a rose. Toris looked away, feeling his face going bright red, and his gaze landed on a girl in a chiton with vines twisted around her legs and arms like bracelets. She looked like she was trying to find out what had happened from an anxious-faced boy in a parka standing in a faint drifting of snow, who looked rather a lot like Captain Freedom. He stared. The girl looked... awfully familiar, but he couldn't place her.

And though Feliks had said he'd come down here with Elizaveta, he wasn't seeing her _anywhere_.

"Um... what?" he ventured.

He spotted the familiar bomber jacket in the milling crowd of weirdoes with something like relief, and craned his neck, trying to get a better glimpse, but now he could hear the person he was apparently talking to.

"- could have been killed, you bloody wanker, and you know what, it would serve you _right_ for always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong -" It kind of looked like it was the angel-man who was shouting at Captain Freedom, who seemed rather amused rather than annoyed by the whole business. He hadn't supposed that angels knew very much about filthy British swears, but it was kind of looking as though he'd been wrong about that.

"What, what?" Feliks glanced over his shoulder, and gave a dismissive snort. "Oh, them. Don't worry about them, it's cool. Like, they're just involved with either that Soviet dude or Freedom, they're probably going to stand here majorly arguing and bickering for like the next three hours anyways. Oh my god, right? Come on, we should get out of here, we totally do _not_ want to hang around for this, trust me."

"I need to find Katyusha," Toris said numbly as Feliks helped him to his feet. "She's supposed to meet me soon -"

"You can call her when we get back to the dorm, she'll totally understand," Feliks said, dismissively. "Come _on_, you are so slow."

-

It was only when Feliks was unlocking their dorm-room door that he realized that he had a slip of paper clutched in his fist.

"... I think Captain Freedom slipped me his phone number."

"You _serious_?" Feliks's eyebrows shot up.

He opened his hand and uncrumpled the paper, and saw the string of digits written across it, with the words _For emergencies :)_ written above it. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

"... So are you like gonna call him?"

"... I... I think I might. Just to say thanks," he added hurriedly. "He did save my life, after all." He didn't like the look of that grin on Feliks's face.

"Oh, of _course_. After all," Feliks said, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that wasn't all, at all.

-


End file.
